


The Joy of Cooking

by Lemon Drop (quercus)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-02
Updated: 2000-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 15:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quercus/pseuds/Lemon%20Drop





	The Joy of Cooking

Imagine you just stepped off the curb to jay-walk to the deli from the bus stop. It's an unusually warm early afternoon in May, the sun still high, and bright enough that you need sunglasses, except you need them so rarely you've misplaced them, so you just squint against the glare. Imagine the traffic is light, the sidewalks clean, the stores full of attractive items for sale. Imagine it is 2019.

Since automobiles are no longer powered by internal combustion engines, the streets are quiet, even to your sensitive ears. Buses are electric; tiny three-wheeled cars are powered by propane; bicycles and tricycles and rickshaws and scooters have their own lanes across the broad boulevard. You will be sixty-one in two months, but you're active and agile and can dart across the street when it clears.

The sky is as blue as Blair's eyes, you think when you reach the sidewalk in front of the deli and pause to look upward. Rain-washed blue. And the air smells like, like sauerkraut and garlic pickles and a hundred kinds of spices. You love this deli. You push open the door and tiny bells jingle to announce your arrival.

For yourself, you like bagels and cream cheese and thinly sliced red onions, so since you're here, you order a sandwich to go. The owners, an elderly couple with heavy New York accents, pack you a paper bag full of bagels, all kinds of bagels, and a tub of salmon cream cheese, one of pickled herring, another of some kind of cheese that comes in little balls floating in brine.

Then you order tongue, a whole tongue. The husband looks at the wife, his eyebrows high, his mouth pulled down. She starts to laugh and pulls out a tray of beef tongues artfully arranged. For a minute you think this is a mistake, but you swallow and remember Blair's blue eyes. Please choose, you ask, and the wife tells you that smaller is better, no more than two pounds. You have a recipe? she asks, her voice rising in disbelief.

The Joy of Cooking, you tell her, and she nods sagely. Very good, very good.

You watch them pack up your purchases, giving the husband your debit card. When the transaction is over, the wife hands you your cloth shopping bag and stage-whispers that she's put a slice of cheesecake in there, too; just a nosh, she says, and winks.

Swinging the bag, you leave and head toward the green grocer two blocks up. The people you pass on the sidewalk are like you: in good health, happy. You see little evidence of poverty or illness, for which you are grateful. You were raised in abundance and it pains you to see the less well-off. You live in a beautiful city, in a beautiful part of the world; the region's wealth makes it possible to hide the homeless, the impoverished, the insane, in a way that poorer places cannot.

Blair taught you that. He makes you humble and grateful, though, not guilty.

The green grocer is a very young Asian woman. You think her parents might own the store, but perhaps not. You think she is Korean, from her accent and the few times you've heard her speaking on the phone to someone who doesn't speak English. A hasty tongue, you think each time. But she knows her customers and keeps a sharp eye out for special teas for Blair.

Today, however, you are buying only onions, carrots, celery, and parsley. You stare at the parsley: curly leaf or flat? She points at the flat leaf and you buy a bundle. It's a bit more expensive, but not much.

You wait at the bus stop to go back home. A group of students waits with you, mostly Japanese, a few whites, speaking some idiom of youth you will never learn now. They are dressed in the new style, clothing that appears to be made from paper, that unfolds like origami. One woman takes the cover off a book, shakes it vigorously, and you watch in amazement as it unfolds into a jacket she slips on, never stopping talking.

Your own jacket is of similar material, a rip-stop nylon, very light-weight. Blair bought it for you for your anniversary; it was very expensive. He said the color complimented your eyes.

When the bus comes, the students crowd aboard from the rear, laughing and jostling each other. The bus kneels at the front, so you board there, smiling at the passenger in the front seat, a developmentally-disabled man you see often when you ride. He cries out your name with delight and scoots over to make room for you, so you sit next to him and explain that it's Blair's birthday. He has a slight speech impediment, so Blair's name comes out almost Bwair when he asks if there'll be cake, will Bwair have cake? As the bus pulls away from the curb, you explain that that's where you're going now, to the bakery. Impulsively, you invite him to come with you.

Six or seven stops later you get out, pausing to see if he wants to come; you think you'll buy him a muffin or cookie if he does. But someone else boards whom he knows and before the bus pulls away, he's deep in conversation with his new friend.

Imagine this bakery. A big place, recently remodeled, with enormous shiny stainless-steel fixtures and floor-to-ceiling ovens. The scents pouring through the open door are mesmerizing, and you stand in the sunshine, close your eyes, and breathe deeply. You are jostled lightly by someone pushing past you to get in, so you step aside and spend a moment more enjoying the day.

You and Blair come here often. For your morning coffee, to talk, to meet friends. Sometimes you meet each other here after spending the day apart. You pretend he's waiting for you now, sitting at the copper counter that parallels the window, peering nearsightedly up the street, anticipating your arrival. Of course, he isn't here today, not now, but it's a pleasant image.

At last you enter. The waitress, a student at Rainier, smiles at you and dashes into the back, returning with a big pink box tied with string. All ready! she calls out, letting you jump the queue. You are embarrassed and feel your face blush; you gesture to the others to go first. So you look into the glass cases at the beautiful cakes and pies and cookies and sweet rolls and decide to buy a loaf of Prospect Street Bread, something you're very fond of, with raisins and dates and walnuts and pecans. The house special.

Imagine your arms full of packages as you walk the rest of the way home, people retreating when they see your age and burden, some saying hello, some smiling, others glancing your way and moving on. You are happy to push the glass door to the lobby open and take the elevator to the third floor; you have to juggle the bundles a bit before you can open the door, but finally you are home.

And now to work.

Open on the counter is The Joy of Cooking, a battered copy that came from Naomi's few possessions when she'd died so suddenly of an aneurysm years ago. Funny, to think of someone so young and vibrant as dead, dead much younger than you are now, when your own much-older father still lives. You put the pink box on top of the fridge, and most of the deli stuff into the fridge, but the tongue and the vegetables you leave on the counter while you read the instructions, eating your lunch absent-mindedly.

Scrub well, it says. That sounds fairly disgusting, but imagine this is a labor of love, so you unwrap the tongue and put it in the sink. You decide to use the vegetable brush on it; what else could you use? But what does "scrub well" mean, really? How hard, how long? To what end? So you do the best you can and hope meaning well is the same as scrubbing well.

Place in a kettle. Well, that you can do.

Peel and add the vegetables. That, too, is do-able. Two onions, a carrot, three ribs celery, six sprigs parsley, and eight peppercorns. What kinds of peppercorns -- does it matter? You stare at Blair's collection of peppercorns -- red, white, green, black, mixed. Is there a correct color peppercorn for tongue? Imagine the decision to be made, and then laugh.

Simmer for three hours.

Imagine leaving the tongue simmering gently on the stove as you open all the windows to the glorious day, Blair's birthday, his fiftieth birthday. He's older by three years than his mother was when she died. He thinks of her often, you know; you sympathize, for you loved Naomi, too. You imagine her here, cooking tongue for her son, as she had so many times before. You imagine how happy Blair would be to see her face again, hear her laugh, listen to her conversation and advice.

Imagine loving a parent as much as Blair loved Naomi. But this is beyond you.

Imagine standing on the balcony, a bottle of water in one hand. In three hours it will be a little after four, and Blair told you he'd be home by five when he kissed you goodbye this morning. A neighbor is talking on the phone to a girlfriend, both giggling incessantly. A dog whines to be let in a few blocks away. In the harbor, seals bark irritably at each other. And at the university, too far for you to hear -- imagine that you've tried many times -- Blair is teaching about the work you'd done when you had lived in Peru all those years, after the turn of the century. Good work, important work. Work you're proud of.

Imagine it's twenty years ago, that you're still a cop and Blair is in some awful limbo of unknowing. Imagine watching his loss and pain and bewilderment day after day, knowing you're as much to blame as he is but not knowing what to do about it. Imagine despairing of ever seeing the enthusiastic, bright-eyed student again, and acknowledging to yourself night after lonely night how much you want to see him again.

Imagine realizing you love someone.

Imagine finding that someone hyperventilating, shut away in his tiny bedroom, gasping for air, trembling in the grip of a panic attack, eyes wide in fear and despair, clutching your arms as you seize him, hold him, tuck him against your chest and murmur into his ear, it's okay, it's okay, I swear to you, it'll be okay.

When you both are calm, you're sitting on the floor in his room, Blair nearly in your lap, his head on your shoulder and yours leaning against his temple. He sniffles a bit and you work your handkerchief out of your pocket and hand it to him to blow his nose. You've seen him have panic attacks before, but never this badly. You don't need to ask why, though. This time you know.

Imagine Blair lifting his face to you, still red from hyperventilating but calm at last, resigned, a little apologetic, and you cannot refrain from running a finger over his lips as you look into his eyes, suddenly recognizing what you see there -- some hero worship, some shame, some pride, and a lifetime of love. Your head tilts forward a bit more and he smiles at you sadly, invitingly, and you have no more defenses against this man, nor can you imagine why you would ever want any. You kiss him; he kisses you, and you can imagine anything.

Imagine everything you ever wanted suddenly in your arms.

Imagine a few weeks later, handing Simon your letter of resignation, crouching next to his wheelchair, trying to explain to him why you and Blair are leaving the country. He refuses to accept your resignation and puts you on a leave of absence, but you know you won't be back. You've given two weeks notice, so you return to your desk; your friends in Major Crimes are staring at you in shocked disbelief. Except for Megan, who smiles kindly. And Joel, who nods approvingly. And Rhonda. And H, and Rafe -- in fact, you realize, everyone in Major Crimes looks pleased, and although part of you fears they're pleased because you're going, you know they're pleased because of who you're going with. Of why you're going with him. And when Joel slaps you on the back, you start to smile, too.

And imagine staggering off the plane into the wet heat of Lima after a flight with too many layovers, too many screaming children, and too much turbulence. Blair looks pale, a little green, so you keep one hand on him as you guide him to Customs, where they wave you through. No need to go to baggage claim; you each are carrying your lives on your backs, like snails off to a new world. Nor do you rent a car, although you do spend a week in Lima in a very nice hotel, mostly in a very nice bed with Blair feeling significantly better.

And imagine returning to a part of the world you'd been so glad to leave a decade earlier, happy to return, happy to escape Cascade and the entire western world of broadcast and narrowcast and anykindofcast, and although you miss your friends and co-workers and even your father and brother, you have at your side and in your bed and wrapped in your arms your world, the world you always wanted but had finally decided could never be.

You move through the apartment tidying up, making things as nice as you can. It isn't the same apartment you left all those years ago, but it's similar and in the same neighborhood. It's still largely empty but for the bed, and gifts brought back from the Chopec, and homecoming gifts from the party your brother threw upon your return. Megan had long since gone home to Australia, but she'd sent a gift, an enormous didgeridoo made of termite-hollowed eucalyptus that leans against the wall in a corner, under a picture Simon had given you of the three of you fishing many years ago.

Imagine you take a nap, relaxing in the freedom of this afternoon, in the anticipation of this evening. You close your eyes and see again the jungle, dense and green and sweet, and Blair moving through it carefully at first, awkwardly, and then through time with growing confidence, glancing over his shoulder at you, smiling lovingly, seductively, teasingly. Imagine categorizing all the smiles Blair's thrown your way. Imagine falling to sleep as you do so, counting smiles instead of sheep.

Imagine waking to the scent of dinner and rolling off the bed to finish it, which turns out to be more disgusting than you'd anticipated. Drain the tongue, plunge it into cold water, and then skin it, which despite your years of hunting in the jungle seems more barbaric when done in your own tidy kitchen, removing the little bones and gristle and root, and you can feel your eyes squinting as if trying not to see what you're doing. At last, the task is completed, and you put the trimmed tongue back in the stock and prepare a vinaigrette. Roasted sliced beets are already made and waiting in the fridge; you pull them out to warm to room temperature. Fresh bread from the bakery, of course, and champagne in the fridge. You aren't sure what wine goes with tongue, but champagne seems more than safe for a birthday. A fiftieth birthday.

Imagine standing in the kitchen mopping up spills only you can see, and then imagine Blair coming home. Coming into the apartment, puzzled by the familiar scent, wondering what you'll do for his birthday. You imagine him tossing his briefcase into the study, shrugging his coat off, and then walking into your arms. Imagine him leaning back, trusting you to hold him as he smiles into your face. Imagine him kissing you, not that first shy kiss of so many years ago, but a generous confident kiss that pleases you more than you can say. Imagine kissing him back, still delighted, after all these years, that you have earned the right to do so, the privilege of loving Blair.

And imagine slicing off a bit of the tongue for him to taste, and imagine his surprise, imagine his pleasure, imagine he cries a little bit because he remembers his mom with so much love and because you've pleased him so much and because he loves you, loves that you did this for him. Imagine the taste of Blair's mouth, a little salty and acidic from the vinaigrette, sweet from the carrots, warm from the tongue; imagine him pushing you into the kitchen cabinet and touching your body with knowledge and forethought. Imagine him whispering into your ear what he wants and what he plans to do and what he wants you to do, and imagine your body helplessly responding to his touch and to his words.

Imagine it's May 24, 2019, and Blair is turning fifty, and he loves you, and he lives with you, and you've never, ever been happier.

And then you look away from Blair's image on the television, away from the press conference and the hated words, but not quickly enough, and the image of Blair on the television screen is burned into your retinas, into the vision center of your brain, and you will carry that image with you until the day you finally die, in Blair's arms, in a future so distant, so different, that you cannot imagine it, don't even know you want, but a future that is as set in stone as the carved images on the Temple of the Sentinels.


End file.
